


Embers

by trustingHim17



Series: Rekindling Hope [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Misunderstandings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25172788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Fear is not always rational, but if the fear is based on history, is it really irrational?
Series: Rekindling Hope [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776541
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

The notes filled the flat, resonating through the room, and he relaxed a small amount for the first time in days. The growing numbness he had been using to survive fled, changing into a path back to the real world. He could not yet see the end, the opening that would drop him back into the present, into the empty flat, but now he knew how to reach the opening. He had found his rope; all he had to do was follow it. Even the memories that had been vying for his attention quieted for a moment.

The empty flat seemed to welcome the noise, and he was grateful for the opportunity. Both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson were out; it was finally safe to release what had been plaguing him all week.

Another series of notes echoed off the walls, releasing to the air the myriad of emotions working their way through him, lending their voices to dispel the growing fog and allow him to put his thoughts into words. He still felt as if he was viewing the world from the bottom of a pit, surrounded on all sides by darkness, pain, and fear, but his notes were building the ladder, so he looked around his prison. What was he?

Disappointed. He supposed that could fit, to a point. He was disappointed that the partnership he had thought existed had faded, perhaps never even blooming after Holmes’ return, like he had thought it had. Disappointed that something else had crumbled, that the friendship on which he had thought he could rely was so superficial, that he was nothing more than a burden.

Frustrated. That might be a bit closer. He was frustrated—with himself for thinking he might not be alone anymore, with Holmes’ acting abilities for leading him to believe the words to his face when the words to others did not match, with the certainty coursing through him that his frustration had no cure.

Alone. That was a given. He should know that one by now. It did not matter how many people with which he surrounded himself or who they were, he would always be alone. He would always be separate. Despite his attempts, there were some days that he never felt more alone than in the middle of a crowd. He had no one, and the sooner he accepted that, the better off he would be.

Hurting. That always came, when these thoughts decided to come out of hiding. Was the hurt a cause or an effect, though? Another series of notes filled the room, exploring the question. A bit of both, he decided. It was a cause, because it was the pain of the knowledge that he was alone that started this downward spiral. It was an effect, because the downward spiral caused a loop of ever-increasing hurt as the pain reminded him of the knowledge and the knowledge brought more pain. He hurt because he was not needed, and not always wanted. He held no redeeming value. A doctor with no practice, his meager intelligence nothing in comparison to Holmes’. He was rarely of any real use.

Expendable. Yes, he knew that, too. It was nothing new, to know he was expendable, but knowing it was true and being shown it was true were two different things. And nothing made his expendability so pointedly clear as when Holmes had left without him for this case, when Holmes had not wanted him to come on a case outside London that Holmes expected to last a week or more. He did not help on every case; he had helped with very few during his marriage, and even after Holmes’ return he occasionally stayed out of Holmes’ smaller cases, frequently due to patients or purely the case’s simplicity. There was not always need for them both to work on a small London case, but this was not a small case, not if Holmes had expected it to last several days. This was the only one that was expected to be in-depth and time consuming that Holmes had ever purposely left him out of, and that in front of the client.

 _I shall leave_ him _behind_. The words ran through his mind again, words Holmes had been saying as Watson climbed the steps to the sitting room, the detective’s nearly derisive tone easily carrying through the closed door and down the stairs. _He would only be in the way_. He was not needed, merely tolerated. That was alright, most of the time. He had grown used to the knowledge, and was usually rather pleased that he had managed to be a friend to one who so isolated himself. But to essentially be told as much, to hear Holmes himself say that he was not wanted…that was a bit different. Holmes had come out the sitting room door a moment later, a nervous, older man following close behind, and distractedly informed Watson not to expect him back for a few days before rushing out the door, a small travel bag in hand. That had been over a week ago.

Gullible. There was another good word. He was gullible, to have thought he was wanted here, that Holmes wanted him around for himself, as a partner, and not for his ability to run errands and smooth rough edges between the detective and the official force. He was gullible for thinking—hoping—that he was something more than the detective’s lackey, a useless sidekick good only for running the menial errands and providing a distraction on occasion. Even his profession was of no use; Holmes had been learning pertinent bits of medicine for years. He should have known better than to hope for something more.

He had learned to keep things close. Apparently, he was still learning to never let those same things back out. Dousing the ember of hope hurt more than never having that ember at all.

A sudden noise behind him made him jump, and his shoulder flared in protest. He had been jumping at nothing for a week, and he ignored it as well as the somewhat sour sound that resulted, merely continuing to drag the bow across the strings to keep himself in the present.

Haunted. That could explain much of the rest of it. He was haunted by the past that no one else knew or could know, haunted by his memories of war and fear, haunted by the permanent reminders of that pain and fear in the scars on his body, haunted by his failures, his loss. His haunting was apparent enough after the memories had taken over yet again a few days before. It had only been stumbling on the idea to write them out that had prevented a real problem when Mrs. Hudson had walked into the room in the middle of it. He would never have forgiven himself if something had happened, and he wondered if that was why Holmes had not wanted him on this case. Who would want a walking ghost around?

Transparent. That fit with the haunted. If he was haunted, he must also be transparent. It would explain why so many people seemed to look right through him, why he was so easily forgotten, dismissed.

Another noise made him jump, and the note came out somewhat ragged as he fought against the memory that sprang to mind: a memory of gunfire, and blood, and horror. He managed to push it aside after a long moment, only for a waterfall to take its place. The chord smoothed, becoming similar to the roar of the falls.

Blind. That one would probably fit under gullible, but he was blind. How else could he explain that he had abandoned his dearest friend? He was blind twice over, first for leaving when Holmes had needed him, then for not realizing Holmes had actually survived but could not contact him. There had been plenty of clues; he could name two easily: Mycroft’s actions and Holmes’ body remaining missing after Moriarty’s was found. He should have seen, should have realized. There were too many things that might be different today if he hadn’t lived with that guilt for three years. 

The note changed from the roar of the falls to a soft cry. The sound fit, and he played it again as he thought. Was he anything else?

Guarded. Yes, he was guarded. Doubly so, now, than he had been in years. Guarded against exposure. Guarded against more pain. It was rare that a major regression like the one a few days before would linger so long, but it had, and he was guarded. With his mood so low, and his memories so close to the surface, he had to be guarded. He had no wish to drag someone else into his problems, which was why he had been prepared to bottle it up yet again until he had realized Mrs. Hudson would be out for the night. He would have the flat to himself, and it was safe to release. He was alone.

A different chord filled the room, but his thoughts were miles and years away.


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes hurried his way down the street, wishing he had found a cab. The same pouring rain that had made cabbies scarce also insisted on pouring down his collar, sending cold trickles down his back, and he suppressed a shiver, more than ready to be back in his armchair in front of the fire. Watson was surely wondering where he had gone by now, but he had found no time in the previous few days to even send word, much less relay that the simple favor requested had turned into a two-day hunt for a rare artefact when the artefact’s hiding spot had proven inaccessible.

He scowled at the memory as he barely missed a drenching under a downspout. The crazy old man had come asking for a reminder of where Holmes had hidden that confounded painting so long ago, and when the man had demonstrated a bothersome inability to understand simple directions, Holmes had ended up going out to the old house, two days’ travel from London. Then, when he had arrived, it had taken all of five seconds to see that there had been renovations done since the painting had been hidden, and the secret room’s door no longer existed. It had taken him over a day to find the new entrance, stretching an already unwanted trip even longer.

A familiar front door loomed out of the rain, and he hurried forward. The rooms were strangely dark, he noted, and he wondered if Watson had gone out for the night. He hoped not. His friend would find the story of Holmes’ last few days rather entertaining, and telling the story might diffuse some of his own annoyance with the irritating old man enough to find the humor for himself.

The door shut behind him, and he stripped off his sopping wet overcoat, relieved to finally be home. Mrs. Hudson’s quarters were dark, and he remembered that the day before he left, she had been planning a night at her sister’s. Usually, they would have gone out for supper with Mrs. Hudson gone, and he wondered if that was why the rooms upstairs were darker than they should have been. He hoped not. He had been looking forward to an evening in front of the fire. Impatient to know if Watson was home, he nearly called up the stairs before the noise registered.

Music carried from the room above, but no tune. Random notes, flitting here and there as if drifting on the wind.

Or on thoughts.

He stopped to listen, his satisfaction at Watson’s use of the viola fading at the realization of why he recognized the sounds. Watson was not playing to enjoy; he was playing to think, the way Holmes frequently did.

A passing thought debated whether the action was something Watson had picked up from Holmes, or whether they had yet another old habit in common, but he pushed it aside. Whatever the background, it was something he knew how to read, and he listened, hearing the notes in the silence of the flat as data for his deductions more than music.

A sour note modified into an almost ghostly wail, bringing to mind several ghost stories with which Mycroft had tried to scare him when they were young. It was a haunted sound, recalling the creaking of floorboards and an empty house, and Holmes frowned. Watson usually preferred the sprightly songs, ones which would be better used in a community gathering like May Day than to highlight a ghost story.

The next several notes barely reached his ears, so quiet were they. After the loud wailing from a moment before, the effect was as if Watson had left the room, or something else had grown louder than the notes. The sound had a thin quality, as if it was fading into the background behind something else.

He forced himself to move, quietly climbing the steps to the sitting room. Had something happened while he was gone, for Watson to choose to play such a thing?

The sound changed again as Holmes reached the top of the stairs, the notes coming out ragged. The door was shut but unlatched, and he pushed it open, spotting Watson perched on the chemistry stool, apparently ignorant of Holmes’ presence. Watson’s shoulders were tense, and a myriad of emotions played across the doctor’s face, predominantly pain, grief. The words of greeting Holmes had been about to voice died as that observation registered. Watson was in pain, but this was not the pain of playing with his injury. This was something different, something harder to define. Something was wrong, but what?

The ragged chord gained a staccato sound before it smoothed, then softened, a quiet cry in the darkness, and Holmes lingered in the doorway, fighting to understand what he was hearing. Watson had obviously had a bad day. His lack of reaction at Holmes’ return showed that even without the uncharacteristic music filling the flat. What Holmes struggled to understand was why the doctor’s mood was so low. Usually, Watson’s entire day was laid out for him to read, but it appeared as if Watson had been seated on that stool for a week, for all the pieces of information he could gather.

He looked around the room, searching for something, anything to answer what was going on. The fire was dying, none of Watson’s novels had been touched in days, and there was no new mail where the doctor habitually left it. A new journal lay open on Watson’s desk, but that was a frequent occurrence; his friend was always writing. He noted but thought little of it. The medical bag sat it its normal spot, apparently unused for over a day, so this was not a patient. What had caused this? And how could he help?

He pushed the door open further, making it creak, and the series of notes Watson had been playing screeched to a stop as the doctor spun to look at the door. Immediately, every emotion Holmes had seen was wiped away, and a faked smile of greeting appeared on Watson’s face. Holmes’ worry grew.


	3. Chapter 3

The creaking of the door intruded on my thoughts, and instinct sounded. I was no longer alone.

I spun to look, painfully dropping back into the present with the realization that however long I had been playing, it wasn’t long enough. I was lighter than before, but I still felt as if I was viewing the world from the bottom of a black pit. A slew of emotions still coursed through me, both leftover from my thoughts moments before and from the memories still vying for attention.

Holmes stood in the doorway with worry already showing in his eyes, and more emotions crowded in. Still grounded enough to put my thoughts into words despite the quiet viola, I forced myself to catalogue them quickly: surprise, guilt, nerves, worry, fear. Surprise, that Holmes had returned without me noticing—a rare occurrence when the memories took over. Guilt, because I hadn’t expected to be heard, would not have been playing if I had known Holmes was in the flat. Holmes was studying me intently, making me nervous. I had no wish for him to deduce my thoughts, and worry that Holmes would be able to see what I had been thinking brought a spark of fear at the coming reaction.

I stopped there, shutting them all down and boxing them up to avoid the chance that they would show on my face. It was no longer safe to show that. I could not risk Holmes being able to read those thoughts. Holmes did not need to know I had had a rough day, a rough week. Holmes need not be burdened with my low mood, especially since Holmes’ words had contributed to it. I remembered how Holmes got when on a case, and I usually would have already brushed it off, as I had so many other things over the years. It was only the combination of past and present that had allowed the hurt to linger, fighting for dominance with the memories of war something else—I knew not what—had triggered. It had been a difficult few days, but that was of no importance. I knew well enough after all this time that the low mood would pass shortly, especially since I could again release through music whenever I got some time alone.

I pasted a smile of greeting on my face.

“Oh, hello, Holmes. How was the case?”

The worry already on his face mixed with something like confusion.

“What case?”

My greeting smile faded. Had Holmes forgotten he had passed me in the stairway, client in tow? Where else would he have been going unless it was a case? Only a case could override Holmes’ excitement related to the concert we had planned for two days ago. I would never have gone on my own, but Holmes’ interest had piqued when we saw an advertisement—something to do with seeing the conductor before. The unused tickets still sat on my desk.

I turned away for a moment, putting my viola in its case while hiding my hurt, hiding that I felt lied to. “The one you have been on for the last week, of course,” I replied, infusing a lightness I did not feel into my voice. “Why else would you have left with a client in such a hurry?”

Holmes’ confusion cleared, though the worry remained. He shook his head as he moved further into the room. “That was no client, Watson. Jones is an acquaintance I knew in college. He was asking where I had hidden the bit of inheritance he had claimed from his brother. The imbecile absolutely insisted I show him the spot instead of just directing him to it. After over an hour of listening to him talk in circles, I finally took the train ticket on the condition that we would travel separately.” He dropped his travel case near his bedroom door and built up the fire to dry his clothes before continuing, “He neglected to correct his implication of a short journey before we reached the station, and I found out from a conductor that the ticket in my hand was to a station two days out of London. I would not have gone had I known that, but by then, I was alone on the platform, and I had given my word to meet him. It is not a mistake I shall make again, I assure you. The only mystery was when his wife hired me to find a lost necklace while I was there, but it took less than an hour to find the rubies in the chambermaid’s quarters. Hardly worth calling it a ‘case.’”

I remained quiet, trying to hide my discomfort. From his place next to the fire, Holmes was just close enough to force me to look up, and the memories I was still fighting off did not enjoy that Holmes towered over me.

“I do wish you could have come,” Holmes continued when he received no answer, and I covered a frown at the inconsistency. “You would have found his estate fascinating.”

I affected a shrug, keeping Holmes in my peripheral as I turned to stare into the fire that had been slowly dying before Holmes revived it. I debated going to my room, but I would never normally do that after Holmes returned from a trip. I would have to listen for a while to keep up appearances, but I was having more trouble finding words the longer my viola stayed silent.

“Watson?”

My thoughts had already begun to slip, and I tensed, pulling myself back to the present and grabbing for something to say. “It is alright, Holmes. I would not want to be in the way. Tell me about the estate. Was it similar to the last one?”

“You would not have been in the way.” The response was immediate, as was the frown that appeared on Holmes’ face. “You know how much I hate traveling, and we would have found that confounded door much quicker if I could have had you searching with me. We might have left before the cook set herself to matching me with the scullery main. Whyever would you think you would be in the way?”

The amusement I would normally have gotten from the reference to a matchmaking cook faded behind the uncertainty of the safest way to answer such a question, and I remained silent. Holmes seated himself in the armchair opposite, heedless of his still-damp clothes as he watched me closely.

“Watson? Talk to me, Watson. What is wrong?”

Something metallic crashed outside, rattling on the cobblestones, and I pushed away another memory of gunfire to find myself with a white-knuckle grip on the armchair.

“Watson, are you with me?” The worry permeating Holmes’ question made it clear that my reaction had not gone unnoticed, and I cursed myself.

“I’m fine, Holmes.” I paused, grasping for a question to use as a distraction. Coming up empty, I eventually settled on the weak, “You haven’t told me about the estate.”

“Nor have you explained what is wrong. Did something happen while I was gone?”

I shook my head in a mute negative and forced a smile. “Don’t bother yourself. I will be alright.” I cursed myself again as my words came out too truthful.

Holmes caught it, of course. “Will be?”

“Am,” I corrected, not daring to meet Holmes’ keen gaze. “Slip of the tongue.”

“I told you long ago that you had no talent at prevaricating,” was Holmes’ response, his stoic tone slowly being replaced with something else. “That remains true. Talk to me. Did I do something?”

I could not conceal a flinch, giving him his answer. Or part of it.

I briefly glanced up in time to see distress and confusion mix in his eyes. “What did I do?”

I shook my head, unwilling to let him past the barrier I had erected in the last week. It did not matter enough to voice, and I would normally have brushed such a thing off after so many days. It was only the memories of war and fear that had fed the hurt to make it linger. My doubts would fade eventually, lost to the busyness of the next case he let me join.

“It does not matter.”

“Of course, it matters!” he nearly snapped, and I covered another flinch. He stared at me for a long moment, his shrewd gaze taking in more than I probably wanted him to know. “You have never minded before when I do not find time to send word. What did I do that would make you so wary of my presence a week later?”

I kept my focus on the fire as I lightly traced the seam in my armchair, using it as a tactile ground against the memories still chiming for attention. Holmes fell silent, but his gaze remained steady, and I could feel him watching me.

It had always made me uncomfortable when Holmes studied me like that when I tried to deflect the conversation. Most of the time, I could ignore it. I still could, if there was a good enough reason, but the distaste I held for voicing my thoughts was slowly becoming outweighed by apathy. I wished I had been able to play longer, to think longer. Maybe then, I would have a plan of action. Maybe then, I would be able to deflect Holmes’ stubbornness and move the conversation along—or escape it completely—but I was barely more than half in the present, barely this side of numb. If Holmes wanted an answer so badly, why not give it to him?

“Watson?”

I sighed. “’I shall leave _him_ behind,’” I repeated in a dull approximation of Holmes’ derisive tone. My gaze remained firmly on the fire. “’He has no talent for this. As such, he would only be in the way.’”

Silence fell over the sitting room for a long moment.

“Oh, Watson.” Holmes’ voice was nearly a whisper, a breath of regret that dissipated as it hit the air.

“If you would rather I not take part in your cases, Holmes,” I told the fire tonelessly, “you need only say so.” The numbness was reaching, and I debated grabbing it. The coming conversation would go far easier if I turned off my ability to feel.

No. I couldn’t do that, because going numb would be an ignoble retreat. Going numb would steal my words, and that was not fair to Holmes. If our partnership was ending, I needed to be present for it, no matter how quickly I checked out later.

Besides, I thought as another memory chimed for attention, the first and only time a memory had completely taken over when I was numb had been terrifying. I would not allow that to repeat. The possible consequences were ones I had never and would never want.

“I am so sorry.”

The words were nearly inaudible, and I doubted for a moment that I had heard them at all, doubted that Holmes would ever say such a thing.

“I did not know you were on the stairs, Watson,” Holmes continued, “but even so, I would still have said it, because I was not referring to you.”

I finally looked up to see Holmes staring at me, deep sorrow and compassion clearly showing on his pale face in place of the unemotional mask he usually displayed.

Why would he allow me to see that? Their presence struck me, pulling me one step further from numbness and granting me a few words.

“Who else would have no talent for one of your cases that someone might expect to come?” Holmes had argued with potential clients before about my participation. We seemed to get one every few months that wanted the detective and only the detective, for whatever reason. It gratified me that Holmes would rather turn down a client than exclude my help, but hearing Holmes say such a thing had been many times worse than Holmes simply agreeing to take a case alone.

The sorrow and compassion—and maybe a bit of remorse—still showed on his face, and that confused me. Maybe he was acting again? Even I knew how to paste the correct emotion to fit the occasion; it would be simple for him to do so.

“ _Our_ cases,” he corrected me quickly. “They are _our_ cases, not mine. I have told you that. This was not a case, however. This was a search for something I had hidden years ago for a friend of the family, a trip I expected to last a day, perhaps two. Jones had just asked if Mycroft would come. Jones taught at the university Mycroft attended, and Mycroft studied under him for a while. I never told Mycroft where I hid the painting, and he has no talent for searching an old house for hidden rooms.”

The explanation was step in the right direction, but a week’s worth of self-doubt could not be erased in the span of a few sentences, and I hesitated, refusing to be duped by honeyed words and the accompanying mask. The emotional barriers I had erected in the previous week barely wavered in the face of such a logical explanation. Why had Holmes left in such a hurry, if not to prevent me from asking questions?

“I wish you could have come,” Holmes repeated, “doubly so, now that I find out you believed I meant you for the last week. Jones arrived just over an hour before you returned, and my patience was at its end. I have no idea how Mycroft put up with him for an entire term. The man is entirely too talkative. I had just promised to meet him at his estate provided we travel separately, and Jones handed me a ticket for the next train. There was no time to explain it to you, or even give you five minutes to pack, and Jones only provided the single ticket. The time to force him to buy a second ticket would have rendered the first one unusable, and my only thought at the time was to force him to stop talking.” Holmes’ mouth quirked in a minute smile. “Preferably without my hands touching his throat,” he added.

The reference registered, but my amusement at the memory never reached my face as a commotion sounded from the street below. A horse screamed, and the sound seemed to echo back through time.

The horses were nearly as bad as a wounded person. Their screams of pain resounded off the sand, seeming to echo in my thoughts as the ensuing gunshot echoed in my ears. How I could hear that lone shot through the fusillade surrounding me, I had no idea, but I knew the sound would be forever ingrained in my memory.

The cracked window closed with a muted thud, and the sound jolted me back to the present. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my suddenly racing heartbeat. The memory had barely lasted a few seconds, but that made no difference to my speeding pulse.

Holmes carefully sat back down in his chair across from me, watching to see if I was in the present. I looked him in the eye, the only way I knew to relieve his worry when my words had not yet returned, and he relaxed.

“Did I—?” I finally got out, my question breaking off as I tried to ask what I had done while locked in the memory.

“It was only a couple of seconds,” he confirmed. “You merely tensed.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and put my head in my hands, trying to bring my mind under control. My mood was no higher than it had been before Holmes’ arrival, and the memories were _not_ helping my desire to go hide in my room in the hopes that the morning would be better.

A faint sound made me look up as Holmes offered a glass of brandy, and I took it, slowly sipping the burning liquid to provide another tie to the present.

“How long?” Holmes’ voice was quieter than normal, almost hesitant, as if he was not sure I would or could answer.

“How long, what?” I replied after a moment. The brandy had helped, and I focused part of my attention on the senses technique to hold the memories at bay. I could feel the chair, see the fire, taste the alcohol, smell the rain…

“How long have you been fighting off a regression?”

I shrugged, still listing things and only devoting half of my attention to the conversation. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. Did overhearing my words trigger something?”

Silence answered as I hesitated, the possibility not crossing my mind before he brought it up. I thought back, trying to remember the first memory that had pried its way loose.

I shook my head after a long moment. There was nothing in common between the first minor regression and Holmes’ words two days before. It was just bad timing.

He made no reply and, believing the conversation to be over, I let myself slowly sink back into my thoughts. While harder to do without my viola, I was grounded enough for the moment to examine what Holmes had said, and I started turning it over in my mind, trying to decide if I could believe his explanation. I desperately wanted to, but I had spent the last week believing I was unwanted, and I had been well on my way to coming to terms with that when he had walked through the door. Could I allow myself to rekindle that ember of hope just as I remembered how to live with it dead? Could I allow myself to feel again when I had only just remembered how to turn the bothersome things off at will?

“What can I do?”

I looked up to meet Holmes’ gaze. Lost in my thoughts, I had nearly forgotten he was there.

“What?” I asked. What was he asking? What did he mean?

“What can I do?” he repeated, his discomfort growing more apparent the more he had to explain. “Our conversation did not exactly cover this. I want to help, but I do not know how.”

Confusion shot through me, and I frowned. Why would he want to help? And how would he? This wasn’t some case for which he could deduce an answer. He did not need to know the thoughts that had been plaguing me for the last week. I doubted he would even understand them if I could find a way to voice them, and that was alright. I would be fine alone, and maybe Holmes’ insistence that they were _our_ cases meant I would at least be able to continue helping with many of the mysteries I so enjoyed instead of looking for a practice to buy.

“Watson, do you really think I would not understand the depths of a Black Mood?” he asked wryly, obviously reading my thoughts on my face.

I colored, a different sort of memory rushing in with the force of a locomotive. Of course, he would understand at least part of it. But could I risk voicing it? Knowing I was expendable and voicing the knowledge were two very different things, and I did not know if I could bring myself to do the latter.

“Watson, the last time I left you alone to mull over something, you thought I wanted you to move out. Talk to me. Please.”

The unusual phrasing barely registered beneath the reference to the four days I had spent carrying the knowledge that our friendship would never revive after Holmes’ return, believing he wanted me gone because of a simple argument. I nearly flinched again at the reminder, beginning to realize when these deeper pits had begun and why it was so hard for me to believe I was no longer alone.

The loss of my wife and child had not contributed to my thoughts this last week much at all, but it was after their loss that I had fallen into the first deep pit. The blackest time had been the months I had spent truly alone. I remembered that was when the regressions had picked up for the first time in years, as well. Having fallen so far, it was difficult for me now to believe Holmes’ reassurances that I was _not_ alone, that I _was_ wanted, especially when combined with a hard week and an overheard conversation. I had learned to trust myself and only myself with my thoughts, and I was afraid to reveal those thoughts to another.

That was it, I realized. That was the basis to everything I had been struggling with for the last few years: I was afraid. Of showing myself, of being hurt again. I had withdrawn from everyone and everything in the wake of Mary’s death, and I was afraid to come back lest it happen again.

I was so terrified of being alone through someone else’s choice that I was making it my own choice.

“From where did this come?” Holmes continued. “Did I do something else?”

I shook my head but remained quiet, unsure how to voice my thoughts, and Holmes tried again.

“Do you trust me?”

I nodded immediately. Of course, I trusted him.

“Then talk to me. Let me help.”

My full range of emotions came back in a rush at the insinuation that my silence indicated a lack of trust. For a moment, they nearly overwhelmed me, twisting and melding with each other as they formed into a wave of anger that washed over me, nearly painful after spending so much time numb or nearly numb. The wall I had been using crumbled.

“Why would you want to?” I found myself saying, unable to temper the torrent of words without my emotional guard. “I’m a useless cripple, and we both know it. I’m a doctor with no practice, and I rarely provide actual help on your cases. You would do just fine without me along; you already proved as much back in Switzerland. You have no real need of a haunted old soldier. Why would you, when I can’t even see through a faked note?”

The words slowed as the initial wave of emotion dispersed, and regret replaced the anger. I kept my gaze averted, unwilling to see the confirmation written in Holmes’ eyes. It was taking everything in me to remain in my chair. After exposing even a portion of my thoughts so bluntly, the fear of Holmes’ reaction was screaming at me to leave the room, to go hide in my room like a coward. I despised feeling so vulnerable, especially in front of Holmes, whose discomfort relating to anything to do with emotions I had noticed from the start. He may have mellowed a bit after his Hiatus—he would likely never have even noticed my reticence before his supposed death—but I had no wish to deal with his discomfort when my own was so pointed, so painful.

I caught myself crossing my arms and forced myself to relax. I gripped the armrests instead.

Holmes made no reply for a long moment. “Watson, do you actually believe that, or is it the Black Mood talking?”

I remained quiet, not entirely sure, myself. I knew I believed it, but I had long ago lost the ability to differentiate my own thoughts from the doubts that had been tormenting me.

“How is it that something so apparent to me can go overlooked so completely by you?”

I forced myself not to flinch back in my chair, desperately trying to rebuild my crumbled barrier in preparation for what was coming.

“That’s not exactly an uncommon occurrence.”

“It is for something like this. I am not the one who writes us so polarized. Should not one who writes himself as pure emotion be able to recognize the regard of a friend?”

I dared to glance up at him. He had been trying to catch my gaze, and he stared at me, letting me see past the front he usually put up. This was not the arrogant detective in front of me. This was my friend, the one to whom I had grown closer than I had ever been with Harry.

“Tell me something, Watson,” he continued, holding my gaze with his own despite his reddening ears. “What does it say about someone who would rather spend time with his flatmate than with his blood brother?”

Why would he prefer me over Mycroft? And why would he make the effort to say such a thing when I could clearly see his discomfort? Mycroft could at least keep up with Holmes’ deductions, something I had never managed.

Before I could try to reply, a thought crossed his face, and a touch of remorse served as backdrop for the rather sheepish tone in which he added, “What does it say when someone will obtain tickets for a concert they have already seen because another person is interested?”

I automatically glanced toward the desk, and he nodded.

“This entire week has been filled with travel, searching for that confounded painting, and trying to avoid the attentions of no less than three of Jones’ servants.” He pulled a face at the memory. “I would have sent word, when I knew I would not make it back for the concert, but the telegraph office at his station was down. There was no other way for me to send a message, not when Jones himself was bordering on senile and twice forgot why I was there long enough to distract from my search.”

I felt a small smirk escape, and Holmes released a smile of his own, though his seemed to be more in response to mine than to the memory of his trip.

“I meant it when I said I would be lost without my Boswell,” he told me steadily, forcibly stilling his fidgeting though his bright red ears betrayed his discomfort at the exertion of voicing the sentiment.

Against my will, I felt the ember of hope rekindle, and I fought back. I wanted to be wanted, but I could not risk the pain that would come when it inevitably fell apart. Better to be alone by my own choice than by another’s. It was better that way, less painful when it all came crashing down.

“Watson.”

I flinched and looked up at him, hating that all my thoughts were plainly displayed on my face. I would not have wished to announce any of them, but I knew Holmes would be able to read them. Would it hurt him, to know that after three years I was still afraid he would abandon me again?

Worry and sorrow—and…was that guilt? Why would there be guilt?—flickered across his gaze, but I saw no trace of hurt, and I hoped I had managed to hide it after all.

“Never again, Watson.” Shame shot through me, but he continued before I could try to apologize. “Never again will I deceive you so. I give you my word. You are not alone, Watson, and you never will be. Not while I draw breath. I will keep showing you until you finally believe me, however long that takes.”

The pit opened, and the darkness thinned, still present but not as suffocating. The memories fighting for attention calmed without the viola for the first time in days, and I felt myself relax.

I hardly dared to hope, but maybe I would not have to hope.

Maybe I could know.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always greatly appreciated! :)


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